Two Kisses Become Three
by sarahandmarquis
Summary: Erik and Christine have been married for two months, and Erik is refusing all physical contact with her. Rated T. Cliche. Fluff. Angst. E/C. COMPLETE.


Author's Note:

Dear Readers,

Okay, I know this is boarding on severely cliche but, it was stuck in my head and wouldn't let me get much needed sleep until I finished it. Besides, we always need a healthy dose of cliche angsty fluff. So, I hope you enjoy the product of my after nightfall very much fried brain.

sarahandmarquis

I do not understand my husband.

We were married two months ago. The wedding was tiny, only myself, my groom, Nadir, and the minister present. In that ceremony, a kiss was exchanged between myself and Erik, our second and last.  
Our first kiss was the night that I bargained for my fiancé's life and won. I kissed him and he me.

Now, he never touches me at all. Not a single brush of fingers, not a single kiss, not a bit of physical contact.

One would think he stopped loving me altogether.

I don't.

He often shows his love through little things. Like always keeping a handkerchief about him even though he has no need of one. Like taking me on walks in the sun even though he hates it so very much (I am convinced). Like playing his violin when I can't sleep.

He dresses me in the finest clothes and never denies me a single thing I want.

A whisper of interest and it is mine.

I have learned to be careful and guard my words.

My mind knows he loves me. My heart wants proof.

Gifts and gestures are all nice in their way and I must agree I wouldn't like to give them up. Yet, if I had to let them go to have some physical affection, to have _touch_ from my husband, I would.

I sleep in my own bed, safe and snug beneath covers. He sleeps at the foot of my bed on the rug or in the coffin in this room. Every night I beg him to join me in my warm bed but he refuses so adamantly, I worry he will leave me if I beg anymore.

So, I fail every night.

I don't understand him. He desired to have a living wife so much. But, he won't let me be her. I am his idol on a shelf, helpless to do anything and worshiped for no reason.

Night is coming quickly and I ready myself for another evening of pleading. I have grown weary of it but refuse to give up.

Perhaps tonight shall be the night he gives in. Perhaps tonight he will help me understand.

As I finish combing my hair, I hear my door open. Turning to face him, my eyes sweep over his delectable form. Perhaps I am mad for desiring a living skeleton but I don't particularly care. He is mad. I am mad. We are mad together.

After all, aren't all the best people?

His eyes momentarily touch mine before he looks away and quietly retreats to behind a screen to change.

Married two months and I have yet to see more of my husband than his lower jaw on a regular basis.

He returns a moment later, dressed in his night clothes and wrapped tightly in his dressing gown so I am not permitted to see a single inch more of him. He observes me for a moment, apparently apprehensive, and inquires,

"Is there anything you need, dear?" That pet name, yet another sign of affection. Always it is said with the utmost reverence as if it were the name of a god.

"No, Erik. Thank you." I smile sweetly at him and put away my brush. Rising to my feet, I gently tie the sash of my robe, being very sure to leave some skin visible. I despise appealing to his male side in such a way but there is no other way to get his attention.

Perhaps he isn't interested in me sexually?

Perhaps he doesn't desire a physical relationship?

Perhaps he just wants a platonic one?

I don't know if I could live with that.

I see his eyes drift downward but instantly snap away, avoiding the issue he knows I will bring up once more. I slip off the dressing gown and drape it beside the bed and slide under the covers, not bothering to hide the dancer's form I still have from my years in the ballet corp.

I feel his blush heating the room.

Once I have tucked myself comfortably in, he lays down at the foot of the bed, curled up there like a loyal dog. My husband sees himself as nothing more than a dog at my feet. Tears prick at my eyes as I softly speak,

"Erik, won't you join me tonight? I am lonely up here by myself."

A quiet decline comes from the edge of my bed and my frustration and grief wells up into large salt drops that rush down my cheeks.

" _Erik! Please!_ " My voice shrieks then breaks before I bury my face in the pillow.

There is a light scuffling from the end of my bed as I feel my husband spring to my side. His hands flutter about me helplessly but he refuses to touch me.

"Christine…dear…Christine…Christine…Chris-" I look up from my pillow at him and reach out for him but he pulls away from me and retreats to the door, shaking his head and wringing his hands.

"What has Erik done…?" He whispers to himself before fleeing the room, leaving a sobbing wife.

I rise to go after him but falter and tumble the floor. I curl inside myself and keep weeping. Is there something wrong with my desire to hold my husband? Am I doing something wrong?

Does he truly love me?

I crawl back to my bed and lay atop the covers, too exhausted to even cover myself. I cry myself to sleep.

I awaken the next morning to find my room filled with de-thorned red roses. An overflowing tray of food sits by my bed, still steaming. Tea is laid out and with one sniff I know it is my favorite blend. I am covered in a thick blanket from a cupboard. Erik wouldn't even touch me to tuck me under my own blankets.

This strangely brings tears to my eyes.

The flood has begun. Perhaps it will never stop?

As I sit up, the door to my bedroom opens and my husband enters, dressed in his evening dress with a white apron. I try to smile at him and thank him through my tight throat.

He won't look at me.

He asks me how I slept and if the meal was satisfactory but I can hear nothing over the palatable disconnect between us. He soon falls silent. I wish I knew what he was thinking but without his eyes I have no idea.

I take a sip of tea to help clear my throat.

"Look at me." I whisper as I slide out from under the blanket. He shakes his head.

"Erik can't."

"Why not?" I ask.

"He doesn't deserve to. He hurt you last night. You cried because of him. Viewing your face is a luxury that he shouldn't enjoy after hurting you."

My poor husband. My poor, poor, misguided husband. I do love him so very much. His pain is my pain. When he hurts himself, he hurts me. Why can't he see that?

"Erik, please look at me. I can't stand it when you don't. Don't hurt me like this." I hate to use that sort of persuasion against him but I know I must if he is to obey.

He trembles violently before collapsing to my feet, mere inches away from my bare toes, sobbing violently.

"F-forgive your Erik! Forgive him…! Please! He loves you s-so so v-very much! He didn't m-mean to make you cry! Please! Don't hate him for what he did! Don't hate me!" He rocks back and forth, his begging tears echoing through the whole of our underground house.

He is so close. I could reach down and touch him. But, I retrain myself. Now is not the time. He needs reassurance of my love. Not forcing of boundaries.

"Erik, I love you. A few tears won't change that. I choose to love you the day we married. I won't stop choosing to love you just because we had a disagreement. All is forgiven." I speak calmly, hoping to soothe him and relax him.

I don't want him to hurt his weak heart.

After a moment, he calms himself and rises slowly to his feet, his head bowed low to me.

"Please, Erik made you breakfast. Won't you enjoy it?" He steps away from me, putting the distance he always felt necessary between us once more. I want to ask him why he insists on keeping away but I don't.

The food smells delicious.

I eat and drink my tea, every now and then glancing towards my silent husband, keeping vigil over his dining wife. Even underground in a safe place, he insists on keeping me safe.

When the plate is cleaned and the cup is empty he steps forward to take them from me. I reach out to touch his hand but he draws away quickly. I bite my trembling lip and will tears not to resurface again.

This rejection is hurting me.

"Erik..." I murmur, turning pleading blue eyes in his direction. "Why don't you let me touch you? You did when we first met. You even let me kiss you twice." I never asked him before, merely begged him to let me. Perhaps that is the key I have been searching for?

He looks at my still outstretched hand and then at his own, quivering before him.

"Christine…you are…" He pauses, his voice thick with emotion. "You are an angel. The purest heaven ever sent down to earth to grace the eyes of men. Erik is a demon. A hell-spawned freak. He must pay you for the torment his touch caused. He must pay with the rest of his life."

I open my mouth to speak, horrified at my husband's thoughts but he continues,

"They were so beautiful. Erik always wanted to know what it was like to be kissed. On Erik's fifth birthday, he asked of his mother that he have two kisses, one for now and one to save. You gave him those. That is all he requires of the angel. You don't have to touch this monster to keep yourself safe."

I want to scream. Two months' worth of love and kindness and he still doesn't believe me. He can't imagine my loving him, desiring his touch. I am filled with the intense desire to prove it to him.

"Erik, what if I wanted to touch you? What if I wanted to kiss you?" I ask, blushing quietly as I intertwine my fingers together, feeling like a little girl once more.

"You can't." He whispers forlornly. "You can't." He shakes his head and snatches up the dishes and is gone in a moment.

If I were still the quiet, sniveling girl of a few months ago, I would wait in my room until he had calmed down and only emerged when I knew we could discus unrelated subjects.

But I am wife now. A wife who loves her husband.

I want my husband.

I follow him out, straight towards the kitchen where he is washing the dishes.

"Erik, I love you. Do those words mean nothing to you?" He seems quite shocked to see there in the doorway. Shocked and surprised.

"They are very pretty." He acknowledges before turning to dry his hands.

I stare at him.

"Do they mean anything to you?"

"They mean someone cares. It is nice. Erik must be very careful."

Oh! There are days when I hate this man so dreadfully much! He never hears more than he wishes and never understands what I say.

Actions must speak for me. I gather my courage and slowly walk towards him, carefully backing him into a corner. I should have done this long ago and ceased to rely on the unstable medium of words.

My husband is dense.

"Christine…" My name is a whispered prayer on his lips as I reach forward and let my hand hover over his face.

"I want you." I whisper, letting my hand fall and caress his lower jaw. "You needn't repay me." I let my hands drift down to his shoulders.

He stands unresponsive, staring at me as if I have lost my mind. His silence drives me mad and I break down once more, helplessly pounding my hands against his chest.

"Why won't you listen to me! Why!" I lay my head on his chest and sob. His hands hover around me, unsure what to do and I worry for a moment that he will flee as he did last night. My arms are hooked tightly around his waist, pressing my body firmly against his.

"You have been too good to your freak." Erik whispers, finally letting his fingers touch my hair. "Too good! You treat him with love and act as if he is truly human and your husband when we both know Erik is nothing more than a beast. But, you are so good to him!"

"You're not my freak." I whisper as I glance upward at him. His eyes fill with despair. I quickly correct my error. "You're my husband."

Our eyes are locked for the longest time before he lifts both hands and lays them against my cheeks, leaning down and laying our foreheads against each other.

"If I am to rot in hell for something, I want it to be for touching my angelic wife." He finally concedes, tears flooding from his eyes. "I l-love you." He stammers and closes his eyes.

I am silent for a moment before separating our foreheads just enough to remove his mask, setting it behind us on the counter. I smile gently at him and press my lips against his, swallowing his gasp. When we part, I whisper softly,

"I love you."

It is a beginning. Not much, but it is better than before. At least our two kisses had become three.


End file.
